


Danse Macabre

by thricetroubles



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thricetroubles/pseuds/thricetroubles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm Tucker, Director of Communications of No. 10 Downing Street, (?)-2009<br/>Harold Saxon, elected Prime Minster of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, 2008</p>
<p>What happened between Saxon’s election victory and the day he contacted the Toclafane on the Valiant?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> Title: _Danse Macabre_  
>  Disclaimer: _Doctor Who_ and _The Thick of It_ are the properties of BBC.  
>  Warning: Non-Beta'd. Malcolm Tucker's language.

Amidst the dark mist and soft whisperings he opened his eyes. 

Eyes focusing on the humanoid being sitting next to his head, he instinctively moved his hands around, touching, finding soft duvet cover and sheets underneath him. Surrounding: dark woods, closed crimson curtains, expensive furnishings, gold-and-crystal lamps. Master bedroom?

_English._ His mind supplied. _That man is talking in English. A human language._

But why did his mind choose to remind him of _that_? This was his fucking native language – it wasn’t as if he was a bloody alien!

The dizziness at the back of his head decided to be fruitful and multiplied – now it turned into an uncontrollable whirling down to the Eighth Circle of Hell, complete with a lake of boiling pitch. 

“Hello, Malcolm! Welcome back. Why do you look like you don’t want to see me?” The man next to him smiled, brown hair, crew-cut, round and soft face, dark-coffee-coloured eyes. A smile with too many teeth, _shark, viper, metallic robots and death rays and extermination machines and exploding stars_ , what was he thinking? _Dangerous. Death. Destruction. Move away. Stay back._

But it didn’t make sense. He remembered this man. He even felt he remembered this man. Harold Saxon. An old schoolmate. Not dangerous. 

“Saxon,” he said, carefully, not to move his head more than necessary. His head was now pounding, officially declaring war on him. 

“Fainting right on the spot when my victory was announced! Really, Malcolm, if I didn’t know how hard you’d been working for this I’d think you do not want to see me becoming the Prime Minister of Great Britain!”

_Yes, yes, election. Prime Minister. Coalition government._ He remembered. _Malcolm. Malcolm Tucker._ ** _Malcolm Fucking Tucker._** _Past and present and now, apparently, future heart of the British Government._ At the prompting of Saxon, information came swimming at the speed of light. Images, histories, memories. Was he really a spin doctor?

**How come he did not feel like being a spin doctor?**

“What the fucking hell! Had I knocked mea fucking head this hard on the way down?” Feeling like he should make a characteristic comment _– but characteristic of who? –_ Malcolm remarked aloud. 

The man, Harold Saxon, smirked. He extended an arm towards him, and petted his hair. Combing through his hair like preening, Saxon spoke again. “Can’t see a thing wrong with your head, my friend, except that it needs a haircut. It probably would not work miracle for the new Government’s image if our Director of Communications runs around with fluffy floppy hair.” 

_That should feel comforting between friends, right? Right?_ But he only wanted to remove himself from that hand, and the man attached to that hand. 

Right, Director of Communications. He remembered. It was agreed. Might as well get to business. In one less-than-smoothly executed manoeuvre, the man known as Malcolm Tucker slipped himself out of the king-size bed. 

Party at the Saxon’s. Party tonight. Announcing cabinet ministers. “Shouldn’t you be downstairs playing fucking host to our merry band of fucktard wankers, Saxon?” _Yes, swear more. Need to swear more. Must keep in character._ Saxon didn’t need to know that he was not feeling like himself.

“The name is Harry. And I had been telling you that for centuries. Are you honestly so slow? You were quicker than this back at school. But then since you had not been sleeping at all during the last week I would cut you some slack. Now, what do you call me again?”

Saxon’s eyes flashed. _Better call him Harry. Need to be careful. Call him Harry. Speak._

“Harry.” Malcolm Tucker did not obey anyone, but in face of a psychopath he could make strategic exceptions. _Wait,_ why did he call Saxon a psychopath? _Where did that come from?_

But _Harry_ was pleased. Very, very pleased. He rose, feline-like, lethal and silky, “Yes, you can learn, can’t you? My dear _Spin_ Doctor.” Was it him or did Saxon stress the word “spin” more than necessary? What was so funny? Both of them knew who he was and what he did for a living. “Your tuxedo is over there, better get dressed quick. You are holding up the guest of honour,” Saxon gesturing at himself, “and his partner-in-crime,” then pointed at him. 

“Not your fucking partner-in-crime,” he muttered, knowing how weak this sounded. He sent this man to the very top, he might as well admit it. He walked over to the corner where the tux was hanging, worrying how he was exposing his back to Saxon but could not understand why this even mattered. 

Maybe getting dressed could be an excuse to get Saxon out of the room? He desperately needed a moment alone. He was confused. He needed to _think_. 

But then Saxon spoke again, “By the way, remember our bet?”

“What bet?” Automatic reply, one he knew instantly he shouldn’t had done. What was he going to lose now? 

“The bet that if I become Prime Minister you are going to call me ‘Master’?” Even with his back facing Saxon he could see Saxon’s smile. Feral and deranged. How stupid could people be, that they elected such a… _person_ … into office? 

_Oh wait. Right, mea culpa. Mea maxima fucking culpa._ “Not going to call you Master, you twat. If you want to hear me sayin’ that ye could jump into the bed and start dreaming. That’d be quicker.” 

_Not safe, not wise,_ still with his back facing Saxon. But he would not turn around. He did not want to see this. Master in power. His own handiwork. _Not now. Not ever._

And what did he just call Saxon in his own head? _Master? Rea-fucking-really??!_

“Oh well, I will count my blessings. Enough for today. Just remember to call me Harry will be fine… for now. Mind you, Malcolm Tucker, I will collect the debt though.”

“You wish.”

“Yes, I wish. I wish. Now I will leave you to get dressed. Try to come out sometime before the midnight, will you my dear Spin Doctor? Our _subjects_ are getting impatient.”

Hearing this, the man known as Malcolm Tucker turned, just in time to see Harold Saxon gliding out of the room, toying a silver, shiny object in his hand while humming a strange, unearthly tone. And Malcolm Tucker thought he smelt fire and blood and smoke and blackened corpuses and burning stars. 

_A silver, shiny object that looked suspiciously like a fob watch._ Despite his panic-stricken confusion, Malcolm’s keen mind observed. Except, except… he could not even remember why a fob watch in Saxon’s hand should feel like a matter of life-and-death. 


End file.
